Home Coming
by nikonic
Summary: Clint stumbles home after a few back-to-back challenging missions and is quite pleased with what he finds upon his arrival. M for mature, explicit content.


Author's Note: This idea popped in my head when I was supposed to be working on my next chapter for A Widow Nesting, my other story in this fandom. It wouldn't relent until I gave it a fair chance. This 6-page long PWP is what happened. Let me know what you think. It's probably going to turn into a 2 shot if enough people want the angst/hurt/comfort angle that's mentioned at the beginning. Oh, yeah, and it's un-beta-ed. All mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: Guess who has two thumbs and owns nothing? This girl! No infringement intended.

He knows it's been far too long when he finally walks through his front door. "Walks" might be too kind of a word. "Stumbles" is more like it. Barton practically collides with the door in desperation of the peace and comfort of the environment just inside. God he needs a break. He haphazardly slings his bags to the ground, letting them fall where they may. When he sets his eyes on the couch, he falls over himself trying to get to its familiar ass-imprinted cushions. He groans happily as he drops unceremoniously onto it. Breathing in the smell of being home, he smiles in his exhaustion and feels his body begin to relax.

His senses slowly start to realize that something is out of place. Was the alarm set, he wonders, racking his brain for the few moments prior. He recognizes something that almost smells like a home-cooked meal, and he realizes just how damn hungry he is. He doesn't want to think about the last time he ate, much less the last time he ate at a table. The house seems airy and clean, which it shouldn't as neither of the residents have been there in over a year. He doesn't care to think about the last time they were in the house together.

Barton struggles to push himself into a sitting position, almost wincing as he's reminded of a few bruises littering his torso. He can't remember seeing a car when he pulled up. He can't remember seeing a car for the last hour or so of the drive. They wanted an isolated location, and that's what they got. He knows Natasha is on a month long mission in Russia, and he hasn't heard from her in a few days. She's the only person who knows this house is in existence. He pulls his sidearm from its ankle holster and slowly starts clearing the house, one room at a time. He can't find a single thing out of place.

The last room to check is the kitchen, and when he silently pads in, he sees her and lets a wide smile grace his face. The safety flips back on, and he puts the gun on the kitchen table before sauntering up behind her. He knows she heard him at one point or another. He knows she won't turn around and kill him. At least he really hopes not.

His arms slip around her waist as he presses in close behind her. He kisses the spot where her neck and shoulder meet as his hands dip under the waistband of her shorts to grasp her hips.

"What happened to a month in Russia?" His words and breath rustle against her neck as he continues to line soft kisses and nips along her shoulder.

"Overestimated the challenge of the mission or underestimated me," she replies in turn. He smirks against her skin because even though she's trying to keep control, he can hear the wanting need in her voice.

"I doubt it's you they underestimated, Tasha."

"Hmm. Oh god," she breathed as he licked and nipped at the spot below her ear, the one that turns her into a ball of putty in his hands. When his hand slips from its position on her hip to cup her firmly, her hips buck in surprise. "Fuck," she pants. "Clint."

"Yes, dear," he asks innocently, rolling his hand into her just so. He figures he can get away with the term of endearment when his hand is buried in her pants.

"Stop," she stutters, her tone drastically different from moments before. Immediately he retreats his hands to her hips, resting on the outside of her shorts. "I need to see you," she explains after taking a deep breath, turning in his arms. "Hi," she whispers against his lips when her arms wrap around his neck.

"Hey," he responds before kissing her soundly. "Your hair is shorter," he observes tangly one of his hands into her fiery locks.

"Hmm," she hums noncommittally. "Close call with a mark in Russia," she explains, her tone still with a warring edge.

He pulls back just enough to see her eyes. His hands move to cradle her face gently in his calloused palms. "But you're okay?"

"I'm always okay."

"Tasha," he questions tenderly. Sometimes she hates how her name sounds when it tumbles from his lips because she hates how it makes her want to collapse in his arms and let him comfort her. She hates how it makes her feel human, and even years after escaping Red Room and their brainwashing, she can't change who she is. She's getting better about letting him in, but still, it's her nickname on his lips, filled with concern and love, that seems to crack and destroy the walls she so tediously maintains with her usual emotionless facade.

"Not now, okay? You're here. I want to be here." She may be forcing that tone out of her voice to make way for the lighter, happier tone, but she does so nevertheless. He can tell her mind isn't completely in the situation, so he lets her control his movements, letting him know what she wants and needs.

He nods, but doesn't make a move to continue what he started. She leans up, balancing on the balls of her feet, to kiss him. Taking his hands in hers, she moves them down over her body, grazing the sides of her breasts, the taut muscles in her abdomen, and the deadly curve of her thighs.

"I think you were just about here," Natasha recalls, placing one of his hands high on the inside of her thigh. She grinds her pelvis against his, feeling his growing erection against her lower stomach. "Come on, Clint," she encourages. "Make me yours." Again, she grinds into him, not pausing to strip him of his shirt and run her nails down his chest. "The whole flight back from Moscow, all I could do was think about you- how good you feel inside of me, how it feels to have you thrust into me, to have you caress my body, to lose control to you. I got so turned on I had to take care of myself in the bathroom on the plane." She nips his earlobe as she tells her scandalous tale. "I was so wet, Clint. I imagined your hands," she pauses to gasp as his hands start moving of their own accord, now that she's told him what she wants.

"Keep going," he husks, running his fingers lazily through her slit.

"I imagined," she starts again having lost her train of thought. "I imagined you dragged me into the bathroom and thrust your fingers in me, covering my mouth with your hand to keep me from screaming out. You... Fuck," she murmurs as she drops her head to rest against his shoulder. "Oh god, you pumped three fingers in me and your palm hit my clit every time you thrust in. I was so hot for you that it didn't take me long until I was clenching around your fingers. Oh fuck," she moans as his fingers follow each action she says. "You pulled your fingers out of me when I came and put them in my mouth. I sucked you clean. God tasting myself on your fingers made me so wet. I was so turned on I couldn't see straight."

"Then what," Clint prompted. "In your fantasy, what happened next?"

"I dropped to my knees," she bit out as his fingers scissored inside of her. "I love to suck your dick. I teased you over your jeans until you were begging for me. When I finally put my mouth on you, I dipped my fingers between my legs to play with myself."

"Jesus, Tasha," he groans as his fingers pump faster inside of her wet heat.

"I swirled my tongue around the head of your dick before deep-throating you. My nose pressed into your groin and I swallowed, making my throat spasm around your cock." Her voice wavers as she recalls her fantasy, her hips moving in time with his fingers. "I slid two fingers into me, and I was still so sensitive from my first orgasm that it didn't take me long to climax. I moved your hands to my head and let you fuck my mouth until you came down my throat." She gasps against his skin as he draws right circles over her clit. "You were so rough with me. I loved it," Natasha admits; though he already knows she likes it rough in certain situations. From her story, he figures this is one of those situations. He takes a look in her eyes, searching for any hint of whatever caused her to stop him before. Seeing nothing, he decides to push forward and give her exactly what she wants. He curls his fingers and rubs her g spot before scissoring his fingers. She falls apart, clinging to his shoulders and shuddering against his body.

Clint can't take it anymore. He strips off her shorts and underwear before bending her over the table. Almost immediately, he has his pants down and slides into her.

"You are so wet, Tasha," he groans as he snaps his hips into her. She rests her head on her bent forearms and tries to focus on breathing, but moans and pleas escape her lips anyway. He grips her hips almost bruisingly as he drives into her. She clenches around him as he pulls out, and god he isn't going to last long. He refuses to come before she does though and mentally scolds his dick to keep it together.

"Did you swallow my cum?" He asks huskily in her ear. Her body shudders beneath him. "Answer me, Tasha. In your fantasy, did you swallow?" When she doesn't answer, he starts to slow down, even though it practically kills him to do so. She whimpers.

"Goddamnit," she groans, trying to rock her hips back to make him move.

"Answer the question."

"Yes," she breathes.

"Yes what?"

"Clint," she begs. "Please!"

"Yes what?" He stills his hips completely.

"Yes I swallowed your cum. When I was thinking about it in the bathroom on the flight back, I came hard around my own fingers when I imagined your cock jerking in my mouth and your cum sliding down my throat." She heaves in a breath; her need to come is overwhelming. "Please, Clint."

He kisses her back between her shoulder blades as he drives into her powerfully, harder and deeper than before. She grips the edge of the table and cries out with each snap of his hips. She chants a mixture of obscenities with his name interspersed. Her body is shuttering and spasming under him and around him. He is dying to see her face, to make sure eyes see only him and not whatever memory keeps pulling her from the moment. He pulls out of her completely, and she's threatening him in Russian and pleading him to push her over the edge. He easily turns her around and lifts her to the table. Her fingers are between her legs as she's trying to bring on the release he keeps withholding. She squirms and bucks against her own hand as she rubs her clit vigorously.

"Put your dick back in me now," she seethes, even as her hips buck involuntarily against her palm. He bends down and pushes her thighs wider apart with his hands. She takes the hint, leaning back to lay on the table.

"Don't move," he commands. His instruction is under laced with the threat that he will stop and leave her high and dry if she doesn't cooperate. She nods desperately. He pins her hips to the table with a strong forearm. He licks slowly up her slit. "You're so wet," he murmurs into her as he nuzzles her clit with his nose. "How badly do you need to come, Tasha?" With his free hand, he spreads her lips and licks a lazy circle around her clit.

He can't distinguish the words that she gasps, but he thinks he hears his name interspersed. He gives into her a little bit and sucks her clit into his mouth, thrashing it with his tongue. "Don't come until I give you permission. Do you understand?" She glares at him with wide eyes. She is so damn close, teetering on the edge.

"Please," she begs again. Her body is practically vibrating as she lies on the table, legs spread wide, hair tousled, and skin flushed and sweaty.

"Do you understand?" She nods, squeezing her eyes shut. "Good girl." He knows he'll pay for that one later. He draws a finger slowly through her slit, gathering her juices on it. "Suck," he commands, placing the digit against her lips. His dick is desperate for release and twitches when her luscious lips wrap around his finger, but he does his best to ignore it. He runs another finger through her again, this time removing her shirt and bra to trace her nipples. He sucks and nips until the peaks are hard and straining for more stimulation. Her thighs start to close as she attempts feebly to relieve some of the pressure. He lands a sharp slap to the slicked inside of her thigh. She gasps and rolls her hips desperately.

"What did I say," he asks. His hands push her thighs further apart, so she stays open to him.

"Don't move," she stutters a response.

"Hold yourself open," he commands. He moves her hands to hold beneath her knees. She nods. He traces a hand slowly down her thighs until her muscles are quaking with need and his fingers are poised just as her entrance. He spreads her lips again, thrusting his tongue into her without warning. She bucks into him and tries to control her quickly approaching climax. "Don't come," he reminds her. "Not until I say so." He teases her relentlessly, dancing figure 8s over her sensitive clit. She's literally quaking beneath him, and god if isn't the most beautiful sight in the world. He looks up at her from his position between her legs. "Open your eyes, Tasha." When she doesn't comply, he delivers another slap to the inside of her thigh, much closer to her center this time. She gasps again and her hips strain towards his hands. "Open your eyes," he repeats. When she does, she locks her gaze on his and she's nearly thrumming with pent up energy as she tries to control her body. "I want you to come in my mouth, Tasha." Her body visibly shakes at his words. Simultaneously, he takes her clit in between his fingers and pinches tightly while thrusting his tongue deep into her. He rubs his tongue over the nerve and she's flying apart in his hands. Her muscles tense and clench, and her voice is hoarse as she gasps and moans her release. He happily laps at his reward. He nips at her clit, barring his teeth against it just slightly. She violently shudders above him and tries to push him away from the overly sensitive organ.

He takes her hand in his and draws their fingers over her clit. "Clint," she gasps. "I... Oh holy hell." When his tongue licks around the edges of their fingers, she bucks up off the table; her back curving as another orgasm takes her by complete surprise.

He is throbbing painfully, and he's proud he didn't come on the floor. Giving her no warning or chance for recovering, he slides into her to the hilt until he's buried deep inside her. "Fuck," he groans as he thrusts into her. She's so tuned up from her orgasms and his show of dominance that she's dripping, her juices coating her thighs. He can feel the moisture against his own as he enters her. God, if he wasn't hard as hell already that would do the trick.

"Clint," she moans. He pulls her into a sitting position, her ass nearly hanging off the edge of the table. With the new position, he brushes against her clit on each stroke and she sees stars. She grips his shoulders, dropping her head to rest against his collarbone as he fucks her. Her thighs wrap around his body; her heels lock behind him. She's close and doesn't know how much longer she can last. She clenches her walls around him tightly as he starts to lose rhythm with his thrusts. Her arms drop to his ass, digging in her nails. "Jesus," she groans against his skin. "I want you to come inside me," she whispers into his ear. "It's been too long since you filled me up. Come on, baby. Give me what I need."

His hips piston out of his control as he pounds into her, grazing her g-spot with each inward stroke. He wants to feel her come around him. He wants to watch her body arch. "Who said you were in control," he bites out between gasps. "When you come, I'll come. I want to feel you milk my cock." He reaches down between them with one hand, thrumming her clit as he thrusts.

"I can't," she mutters. "I don't think I can," she pauses, gasping for breath. "Come again," she moans loudly.

"We'll see," he whispers into her ear. "You do as I say, remember? If I tell you to come, you come. Did you not learn that lesson last time?"

"Last time," Natasha asks, though she knows exactly what he is talking about.

"Last time you disobeyed a direct order," he replies with a sharp thrust.

She moans and grips his ass tighter. "I don't remember," she lies. "You'll have to remind me."

"You don't remember how I tied you to the bed and kept you on edge for hours? You were crying and begging for release. Your hips strained to meet my belt when I whipped you. You got so wet." Her walls clench around his cock, and Clint knows she is so close. "You don't remember how I made you come with my fingers and teeth and tongue. You don't remember how you said you couldn't come anymore, and I dragged orgasm after orgasm out of you. You don't remember," Clint asks again.

"No," she replies shakily, her head buried in the curve of his neck. Her curly hair falls around her face like a curtain. He lifts a hand to tuck some behind her ear, so he can see her pleasure on her face.

"No? You don't remember how I held the vibrator over your clit and watched you squirm. With your legs tied open, you couldn't get away from it and god you were so sensitive. We had been at it for hours. Your body twisted and squirmed in the bindings. You gripped the sheets in your fists and nearly bit through your lip trying not to scream." That story breaks the damn as Natasha is clenching around him, her back arching like a drawn bow. She heaves in a few breaths and she can't focus on anything besides the pleasure and the way he feels buried inside of her. He thrusts into her once, twice, and then he's pulling her hips impossibly closer, burying himself in her to the hilt, as his body stills. His cock jerks inside of her, filling her with warm seed. She can't help but moan aloud at the feeling. She falls against him, her body limp against his.

"Jesus, Tasha," he rasps when he gets his breathing back under control. "Skype sex really doesn't do it justice." She simply shakes her head, too tired to do anything else. "Come on, let's go sleep," he encourages. He slips out of her and she groans at the loss of contact, still leaning heavily into his chest. He lifts her off the table and carries her slowly up the stairs, before gently putting her on the bed and sidling in beside her.

"I love you," he whispers into her hair as sleep claims him.


End file.
